


The Aftermath

by brahe



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (kind of like nirnaeth arnoediad was not), Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mourning, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Sibling Relationship, although that's not new, it's short, maedhros is sad, takes place after major character death, the day i write something longer than 1000 words will be a glorious day, what a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros mourns.</p><p>"He didn't cry when they found the body...he didn't cry when the others came to collect it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> I try to write fluff for these guys and then it's all just sad and depressed. There's enough of that in canon, ugh. But anyway, have some more.

Maglor stayed with him for those first weeks. _Maglor._ The name felt as strange in his mind as it did on his tongue. All of the new names, strange and foreign like the new land, he found hard to use. It was not easy to break the habit of several centuries.

 

He didn't cry when they found the body laid out on the battlefield, and he didn't cry when the others came to collect it. He didn't cry until late that night, when the stars tried to outshine the moon. He wanted to yell, to scream at the sky and accuse it of its failure to recognize his strife. How dare they not mourn for the passing of the King? But instead he sat outside his tent, resting against his pack, knees bent to his face and his eyes puffy and red with tears. The grief made him angry, angry at Findekáno and at Fëanor and at the Valar and at Morgoth and at everything that seemed to keep going wrong. He went to wipe the tears that had become physical embodiments of his anger from his face and was reminded of how he had only one hand now, and he found the fire under his rage poked and fed again. He wanted to stop the tears, the grief, the overwhelming sorrow, but he couldn't let go of the image of Findekáno.

 

He must have screamed because Mag- _Makalaurë_ was suddenly kneeling before him, deep-set concern etched into his features as his hands cupped Maitimo's face. Gentle thumbs rubbed under his eyes in an attempt to ease his tears, but instead of comfort, Makalaurë's touch brought the collapse of the last wall. Maitimo crumbled into him. The tears that now fell down his cheeks felt like they were ripped from him one by one as the weight of everything crashed into Maitimo's chest. He found it hard to breath, his thoughts filled with all the things he wouldn't see again, wouldn't feel again.

  
"He left me," he eventually croaked against Makalaurë's shirt, where his face was pressed into it and the fabric was damp and salty.

  
"I know," Makalaurë murmured, rubbing a hand down his brother's back.

  
"He left me," Maitimo whispered again, squeezing his eyes against a new wave of tears. "I love him."

  
Makalaurë didn't respond, for he'd never heard Maitimo admit such a thing, though he figured it to be true. Maitimo sat back, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm. He looked at his brother, and Makalaurë felt suddenly uncomfortable under a gaze so broken by loss and suffering, so honest and soul-searching because of the pain behind it.

  
"I don't know what to do," Maitimo admitted, voice hoarse and soft. Makalaurë almost flinched. A moment went by and Maitimo squeezed his eyes shut again, new tears falling from his lashes. "What am I supposed to do?"

 

For three weeks Makalaurë held Maitimo when he needed it, woke him from the nightmares, and hovered close enough behind him that Maitimo could fall back on him if he needed to. He could have kept going, too, but Maitimo had wrapped the pain and sorrow in a shell of work and training, and only found himself overcome to the point of tears late at night, alone. Something that felt an awful lot like dread set in when Makalaurë fully realized how long Maitimo would have to keep on without Findekáno. Immortality was often a curse, especially in this land. There were nights, seldom though they were, where Makalaurë thought about the Hall and wondered if such a place would open its doors to the likes of them, would offer second chances. He hoped, for the sake of his brother, that they would.

 


End file.
